Gut Feeling
by WalkingThePlank
Summary: Wanting to forge ahead with a case, Sherlock doesn't listen to John's worries. The case goes horribly wrong, forcing John and Sherlock's friendship to dance a fine line. Can they ever return to what they were? Johnlock. Rated M for a reason. Triggers for rape and drugs. Slight Non-Con (it's complicated!)
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Slight Non-Con, definite triggers for Drugs and Rape.**

**POV switches, so keep an eye out for that. **

**This is rated M for a reason.**

**x**

**I want to thank my beautiful Beta who can be found over at saints-and-madmen on Tumblr. Her blog is beautiful and wonderful. You should definitely follow her. Any mistakes you see are mine and mine alone.**

**Comment/Favorite/Follow if convenient.**

**In inconvenient ****Comment/Favorite/Follow anyway. ;)**

**xXxXxXx**

A dangerous drug cartel was quickly on the rise within Britain. While much of their inner workings were expertly contained, enough was known about them to make it clear they were a potential threat to the nation. It put Mycroft on edge.

And so Sherlock and John were hired.

A normal week, really.

x

"But I don't speak Hungarian," John said to Lestrade and Sherlock's backs as they plotted together. They continued speaking in hushed tones, not hearing John.

John repeated a bit more loudly, "_But I do not speak Hungarian._" Sherlock cocked his head towards John.

"Hm?"

John's eyes fluttered and he sighed, giving Sherlock the look that told him he was about to smack him.

Lestrade finally answered, "It doesn't matter. The leader is Hungarian, but hardly anyone else is. Actually, we're not sure where many of them are from, nor do we know their real names or where the drugs are coming from, or where they're going or-"

"-Nothing is known, John. It's all muddled. We will surely blend in just fine."

"Until you get there."

"Hm?"

"Nothing is known, that is, until you get there. You'll solve everything quickly and..." John blushed. "and brilliantly." He looked away and tucked his hands into his pockets. "Can we go home now?"

"You may, yes." Sherlock turned his back on John once more, intending to finish up with Lestrade. John started for the door but, as an afterthought, grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him out with him.

"John, I am not a petulant child and will not be treated as such, I am attempting to conduct business!"

"You're done for tonight!" And, like a child being disciplined, Sherlock followed John out of the door and into a taxi without another word.

Once the taxi started up and was on its way to 221B, Sherlock questioned John.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Just tired."

"But, it's only four o'clock."

John sighed, "Yes, but we have an early day tomorrow."

"Even more reason to get more done tonight."

"I'm just worried, okay? Politely piss off."

Walking up the stairs, Sherlock held John's elbow lightly as if steadying him. Sherlock muttered into his ear, "There's no need to worry. Not when you're with me."

John stood on the top step, stunned, and let Sherlock disappear into the flat in a subtle swish of his jacket.

He couldn't explain it, but his heart weighed heavily with all the worries he had for the case ahead of them. Still worse, John's gut feelings had never before been wrong. John's gut feelings were part of why Sherlock found so John so helpful. His gut feeling had saved Sherlock soon after their first meeting, when he shot the cabbie.

The door clicked closed. John shook his head free of the pessimistic thoughts and entered the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock did not often attempt sleep. It was tedious and unnecessary. However, he was not yet on a case, there were no facts to mull over, and he knew his body would need the energy the following day. But, of course, the one night he would like sleep, it would not come to him.

What did come to him was that John was worried. Dr. John Watson, who thrives on dangerous situations, had qualms about their new case. It should not have bothered him. It should not have blockaded sleep from taking over his mind. Sherlock huffed and kicked the blankets off of him and rolled from the sofa.

He knocked quickly on John's door.

"It's 2 in the morning, Sherlock."

"You're clearly not sleeping. You answered quickly, there is no lack of clarity in your voice and I can hear that you are not on your bed, but rather over at your desk on the computer. I could also hear you clicking away at your keyboard even as I was sat on the sofa."

"Come in, then."

John was in his robe, typing away at his laptop, his eyes not moving from the screen.

"What are you typing?"

"Nothing much. My typical dribble that disinterests you."

Sherlock walked to John's bed and nonchalantly turned his head towards John's screen to capture what he was typing, but John closed the computer before he could get a clear view. He perched on the edge of John's bed.

_"... but this time will be different... he will not ever notice... gut feeling... ... ... overwhelming feeling."_

Sherlock had captured few words but he still turned them over and over in his mind.

"So what do you want, Sherlock?"

"I cannot sleep."

"You were on the sofa, how do you know you can't sleep?"

"I can't sleep in my bed. It's crowded."

"Oh? Has a throng of women followed you home and now await your arrival? Yet, you find their presence tedious and boring and prefer to annoy your unattractive flatmate until the women leave?"

"No, there are books on my bed. I prefer not to disturb them."

"But you'll disturb me."

"You were awake."

"So are your books."

"John, be serious."

Sherlock knew John found amusement in treating him like this, but he could not see how. John began to swivel side-to-side in his chair, rolling his pen between his palms. Sherlock reached out and grabbed the back of John's chair, forcing cessation of John's annoying habits.

"Why are you worried?"

"This feels different, Sherlock. We're not chasing people down, we're pretending to be them. So much could go wrong. And... and groups like this..." John sighed. "If you're not family, they like to give you things to do such as-"

"-initiation." Sherlock finished.

"Yes. What could we be forced to do?"

"There isn't much I haven't done."

Sherlock stood to leave and before closing the door heard John ask, "But what about me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter is a bit longer than the others. Just warning. :**)

xXx

John stirred his tea, enjoying the quiet tinkling of the spoon against the china.

"You've killed," Sherlock yawned as he flopped into the chair opposite John. He banged his elbow against the table and reached across to take John's tea.

Expecting it, John reached behind him to take the second cup he'd made and began to add sugar.

"Yes, and?"

"You were worried about the initiation but you've killed before. I'm sure it won't be much different."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. It was futile to explain to Sherlock that he had missed the point.

"Perhaps you should do this case on your own."

"Why would you suggest that? Does this case seem boring to you?"

"No! Not at all."

"Is it because Mycroft asked us to do it? Do you think we should not give into him?"

"No."

Sherlock finished the last of the tea quickly and stood, hovering intimidatingly above John.

"But it could be dangerous."

"Yes, I know. And that line only worked on me once, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, but if I died you would feel horrible that you weren't there to protect me."

John slowly raised his eyes to meet the other man's.

_Checkmate _shone brilliantly from those blue eyes, daring John to argue.

"I'll get dressed then," John ceded and pushed past Sherlock.

John vomited several times while readying himself.

Nervous stomach.

xXxXxXx

After several hours of preparation with Scotland Yard, they were finally ready to approach the group.

The two men walked several blocks of sidewalk. John kept his head down but felt Sherlock's eyes on him several times. He focused on the gentle raindrops hitting the pavement.

Sherlock rapped confidently on the black, wooden door.

A surprisingly small, thin man answered the door. He looked over Sherlock and John but did not greet them in any way. Sherlock seemed unperturbed.

"Istvan invited us," Sherlock told him.

"Are you Pearce and Marcus?"

"Obviously."

The man grunted and stepped back to allow them entrance.

The flat was two stories and fairly typical. All of the drapes were drawn and dust swirled in the small streaks of sun which crept in at the corners. Of course, John was used to a dark flat. His eyes adjusted quickly.

A man was sat in the corner, paging through a thick paperback, seemingly unconcerned with the guests.

Sherlock approached him. The man was dark skinned and heavy, with a thick, grey beard.

"Elnezest," Sherlock greeted him.

The man looked up and grinned.

"Good try at Hungarian. You are Pearce."

Sherlock nodded, unamused. "Do you have my goods?" Sherlock asked professionally.

"Yes, take off your shirts."

Neither questioned the man, only did as he said, knowing he was checking for evidence such as wires, that they could be police. Sherlock looked at John meaningfully

as if to say, _See? And Lestrade wanted us to wear wires. I told you._

John had seen Sherlock without his shirt a handful of times, but always when there was really no time to look. This time, he could not stop himself. He watched Sherlock's nimble fingers fly across his buttoned shirt. John pulled his jumper up over his head and then worked on his own buttons. Sherlock was bare chested quickly and John allowed his eyes to wander across his strong chest. Sherlock's abdomen was toned, but obviously from having a strenuous job, and not from weightlifting or other similar activities. John himself had a slight beer belly. He felt his skin rise with goose pimples in the chilled air.

"What are you? Some sort of pouf?" Istvan asked John, laughing heartily.

"Not at all. Was lost in thought."

"Needing a fix, eh?" He winked. John only nodded. "I have what you need, but be careful. You know what they say about dipping into your own supply." He nodded towards the thin man behind them who had opened the door. He pulled a bag from his jacket pocket and brought it to Istvan. "But membership is required, boys. You know this."

"I can double your profits. I guarantee you. Have no doubts," Sherlock told him confidently. It was easy to see he was comfortable in this drug-world.

"You need to prove to me that you will be faithful to me, and that you will not go running to the police. Will you do what it takes to prove yourselves to me, boys?"

Both men nodded assent.

Istvan's eyes shone with a horrible idea being formed. John's stomach churned and he had to lock his knees, else he'd hit the ground. Here it was, this was it. The horrible event that John had been expecting.

"You, pouf," Istvan pointed at John. "Take off the rest of your clothes."

John shivered. He looked to Sherlock hoping he could silently convey, _Please, Sherlock, use your genius to get me out of this. Please help me._ But Sherlock's eyes were empty and his face was blank. One more glance at Istvan told him this was the least of his problems tonight. John took a deep breath, stepped out of his leather shoes, trousers and red pants. He covered his flaccid cock with cupped hands.

"Go lie down on the rug." He pointed a fat, crooked finger at the red Persian rug in front of the unlit brick fireplace. He threw one more glance to Sherlock and still gained no reaction. He wanted to badly to be mad at Sherlock, to bruise those sharp cheekbones with one strike of his knuckles. He had told him! He had told him he did not want to be here! All he knew was that after this moment, he never wanted to see Sherlock again.

xXx

Sherlock trained his face to remain emotionless but his heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear. Of course, he was 3 steps ahead of Istvan and even that thin, perverted bastard behind them. He knew what was going to happen, he just had not yet formulated a way out of it. Sherlock took a deep breath and made a decision. He and John would just have to play along, it would not be the worst thing that either of them had ever been through, and it was all for the case. If he denied Istvan now, they could leave here in ambulances.

"Now you, Pearce. Go fuck Marcus like I know he wants it." He chuckled, emitting a devilish, obnoxious laugh from deep in his fat, hairy gut.

"I've got a girlfriend, mate," Sherlock said in a feeble attempt to stop everything. Istvan raised an eyebrow indicating he did not give one fuck. Sherlock swallowed hard and undressed. He did not cover himself as John had, hoping his confidence would calm John, show him that everything was under control. He should have listened to John. They were not prepared for this. Sherlock hated to admit that, and worse, he hated to admit that it was because he had gotten cocky in his abilities. He'd gotten them into this situation.

But he would make it okay. For John.

Sherlock was not a virgin, but he could find no decent way to lower himself between John's legs. He tried to search John's face for any kind of help, but John's face was red with anger and embarrassment and he turned his face toward the dirty window. Sherlock lowered himself onto his knees and moved closer to John. Sherlock and John were both completely flaccid. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Get on with it, boy!" Istvan shouted. He was now sat back in his chair in the corner, smoothing his palms out over his thighs. _He's beginning to stimulate blood flow into his lower torso. He's intending to masturbate to this event. _Rage surged through Sherlock. A mockery was being made of John and it terrified him how angry he'd become for the sake of John's modesty. Sherlock closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around his own penis. He was still unsure whether or not he should attempt to stimulate John. Surely, if he wanted to be, he could do it himself. If Sherlock did stimulate him, it could pleasure him and lessen the other affects but at the same time it could increase John's embarrassment exponentially.

Sherlock stared down at the hollow of John's neck, wanting to bite, lick and kiss there. Not just in this moment, but he often found himself finding that urge whether sitting across the table from John at breakfast or sharing a cab with him or...

Slowly, Sherlock became erect. He recalled the Table of Elements, first by atomic weight, then alphabetically, then alphabetically in ascending order. He looked around for anything that could be used as lubrication. He looked towards Istvan. He was staring at them, unblinking, his half-hard prick in hand. His "assistant" was no longer in the room. He could hear guests in another part of the home. He was most likely dealing drugs.

"John, I," Sherlock whispered. John didn't even look at him. "John, I don't have a lubricant."

"I don't give a fuck." John squeezed his eyes shut. There were any number of things Sherlock could say in an attempt to comfort John but he did not know what John's coping mechanism was. If it was to keep himself distracted, then surely talking to him would bring him away from the distraction and be harmful rather than helpful.

Sherlock attempted to not view the more intimate parts of John. He entered John with one finger, and then two. He did not give it as much time as he thought he should, but he assumed it would be better to just get it done with. They could deal with the physical damage later, in private. Sherlock kept quiet and spit on the tip of his penis and rubbed it over John's opening.

Finally he entered John. It was not even the entire head of his penis, wanting to ensure John was as ready as he could be, but John recoiled, drawing his knees up and covering his face. Sherlock bit his lip and looked to the ceiling and pressed forward still. John no longer moved.

Sherlock held the base of his penis tight, to keep the blood there, keep himself erect. He pushed forward a bit more, sheathing half of his length inside John. He then pulled out, hoping he could end this without impaling John and without Istvan noticing the action.

Before pushing back in, Sherlock spit two more times. He noticed a small streak of blood on his length. Sherlock could not remember a single time in his life when he had cried. He could not even recall ever _wanting_ to cry. But here, in this filthy room, posed above John like this... he had to close his eyes and think about poisonous gases to contain the tears.


	4. Chapter 4

John dug his fingers into his knees, kept his head turned and kept his eyes squeezed closed. He had to do whatever it took to keep from crying. Sherlock and Istvan could not know the pain he was in, physically or otherwise. John had been shot, he'd had the shit beat out of him, he had been stabbed... this was nothing, this was nothing, _this was nothing. _John tasted blood. He had bitten his lip. He sucked the lip there and tasted the blood and focused on that metallic taste.

John gave into the sensation, tried to enjoy it, tried to shut down the thinking parts of his brain... but this method was ruined when he felt himself becoming aroused. No, he could not let them know there was any part of him that could enjoy this, lest either of them think he really was some sort of queer. Or worse, that he lo- that he loved... no. He clamped his legs tighter together and squeezed them against his abdomen to hide his prick.

In all of his secret-half-asleep-at-3-am-buried-beneath-the-blankets desires he never thought that sex with Sherlock could ever be this way. And perhaps that's why it hurt the most. It was the harsh reality of what this relationship really was, compared to the small part of John's mind that actually dared to hope.

He felt Sherlock's warm and sticky hand snake between his legs and begin to stroke him. He peeled his eyes open then and forced himself to look at Sherlock. He glared at the curly-haired man above him, _What is your intent? _He hoped to convey. Sherlock's face was stone. He continued to pump John's prick. Finally, John was fully erect and if John focused on that alone, the pain of Sherlock being within him was not so bad, just a dull ache. He was glad even for the small amount of spittle Sherlock had provided.

"Cum, boys!" Istvan yelled out with a rasp to his voice that had not been there previously.

"John..." Sherlock whispered. And John could not tell if it was sexual, if it was a warning, if it was a promise, if it was meant to soothe him. Sherlock pulled himself from John and John suddenly felt incredibly cold, until Sherlock pumped himself twice and spilled his seed across John's thighs. Sherlock then pumped John as well until he spilled over.

"Good boys, good show!" Istvan said as his assistant dropped several bags of cocaine by John's head, followed shortly by a pile of their clothes.

The two men left the room laughing.

Sherlock did not move off of John. He stared into John's eyes, his face still void of any emotion. John felt tears fall from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks and toward his ears. Sherlock leaned forward and grazed his lips across John's forehead as if wanting to kiss him, but he did not. Sherlock stood to dress. Still on his back, John pulled on his pants and trousers, not even bothering to wipe the cum from his things and torso. He pulled his jumper over his head as he headed out the door after Sherlock.

In the cab neither man attempted eye contact or conversation.

Lestrade was sat in their living room when they arrived.

He took the drugs from Sherlock and chuckled as he placed the bags inside his briefcase, "It's a drugs bust!"

He looked at both men. John just turned and went to his room.

"Just trying to lighten the mood," Lestrade told Sherlock as John's door clicked behind him.

"John isn't going back with me, Lestrade."

"But-"

"No, I'll tell them he died so they won't search for him. This isn't debatable."

John stood in the centre of his room for a long moment. He finally heard Lestrade exit the flat and he fell onto his bed, wanting a shower but not wanting to cross paths with Sherlock.

Shortly after, he heard the shower cut on. When he was sure Sherlock was under the water stream, he began to sob.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock leaned against the bathroom door, allowing the steam to billow up around him. He could hear John's muffled sobs from the other room.

Sherlock turned off his mind. He methodically cleaned every inch of his body and every curl of hair. He hummed to himself a tune he might later play on his violin. When he stepped out, he found he could not look at himself in the mirror. He determinedly ignored his thoughts and, in his robe, played his violin well into the morning hours.

After noon, Lestrade arrived. He handed Sherlock a large stack of money to return to Istvan to appear that he had sold the drugs quickly and for a substantial bit more than their usual price.

"You, you doing okay, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"Yes." Sherlock returned to his spot by the window, standing by his violin.

"It's just that, well, you're going to be surrounded by a fair amount of drugs for this case. No... no urges or anything?"

"Of course not. What do you think of me, Lestrade? Drugs?_ Drugs? _You think my priority here is _drugs?"_

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock. I was just asking." He turned to leave. Sherlock picked up his violin. Lestrade turned back toward him, "But what, if I may ask, _is_ your priority here? What are you thinking, trying to go back in there alone, leaving John behind?"

"John is my priority. He's not safe."

"The fuck I am!" Their heads snapped to the bottom of the staircase where John now stood. Sherlock was by Lestrade's side in one fluid movement, pushing him towards the foyer.

"Out!" Sherlock rushed Lestrade out of the door. "Get out!"

"What the bloody Hell?! No, Sherlock! Tell me what is happening here!"

"I said get out!" Sherlock bellowed. With one last furtive look towards John, Lestrade was gone. John still stood at the bottom of the staircase, anger written clearly across his face.

Sherlock took several steps towards John but left a couple of metres between them.

"John, I'm going to fix this. I'm going to tell them you're gone, no longer in it. I'll keep them away from you. It'll be alright."

"It bloody well is not alright, Sherlock. And it won't be." John's voice came quietly. John was broken and Sherlock could not be positive what it felt like, but he was 91% sure it broke his heart.

"John, you do know that those actions... they didn't mean anything. We were on a case."

"Yep. I know that, Sherlock. And that's the problem, isn't it? I told you I was uncomfortable." John stepped forward and his eyes became brazen, gaining something like courage in his eyes. "I told you I didn't want to go! And what did you tell me, Sherlock? What did you tell me?"

Sherlock raised his chin, challenging John. "I told you that you'd regret it if I died and you hadn't been there to protect me."

"And I would have, Sherlock. I would have protected you." He took several steps forward, closing the space between them. "But you didn't protect me."

Sherlock rounded on John quickly, changing their positions and shoved John against the damasque wallpaper. "Yes, I did." Sherlock could no longer keep his tone even and emotionless. He knew he was not fighting John, not really. He was fighting the guilt he felt. Guilt and a broken heart all in one day. Sherlock was nearly overwhelmed with all that he was feeling. All that he had never felt before.

"Do you know why I did what I did, John?"

"Certainly not because you care about me!" the shorter man spat, giving into Sherlock's hands that pinned his shoulders to the wall.

"No, because Istvan's little lackey had left the room, he was selling drugs to two men, one of which I heard cock a gun upon entering. Istvan had two guns on his person as well as a knife. I had one gun, John. One! That is one weapon to protect the both of us, against several other men, all armed. We could have left there awkwardly, the way we did, or we could have left dead!" And the peculiar feeling of tears struck Sherlock for the second time in twenty-four hours. "Which would you have preferred?"

John's eyes were searching Sherlock's face, his dilated pupils darting around wildly. Sherlock swallowed hard, knowing he was about to be punched or, or...

John reached up and grasped the back of Sherlock's neck with strong fingers and pulled him to him. Sherlock could have resisted but he found he had no desire to. John kissed him in a way that did not feel romantic or particularly purposeful other than catching Sherlock off guard. The kiss was bruising and Sherlock tasted blood where John's teeth had gnashed against his lips. As quickly as it had started, it was over and John was shoving him away.

"I'm just a goddamned pawn, Sherlock and I know it. You're doing me no favours by pretending otherwise. I'll be out soon."

John headed for the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

John's heart was pumping with adrenaline. He'd kissed Sherlock. _He'd kissed Sherlock_.

_With all that he's put you through, John! You're bloody mad! _John didn't have much time to berate himself.

"You can't leave, John!" He turned to face Sherlock from his position on the second stair.

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Sherlock, and you can't stop me."

"It's dangerous. I can protect you here. You don't know the things I know, if you leave here they could get their hands on you, they could kill you."

"I don't know the things you know," John repeated. "Sherlock, this is why we're where we are. I'm not even human to you. As I said, I'm just a pawn."

Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's jumper. Feeling his fist collide with Sherlock's mouth was more satisfying than John could have imagined, but the blood running from his lips made his stomach sink. He felt instant regret.

_But he doesn't want you, John. He doesn't even need you, he just likes to use you. It's all about the case. It's always been about the case. _

Something in Sherlock's face was different. With not very much emotional range, Sherlock had a set number of facial expressions. There was 'I Won' and 'We Both Know What's Going On Here' and the classic 'Just How Stupid Are You?' This face, however, was one of guilt, true sorrow, and even worry. But John didn't believe Sherlock could ever really feel any of those things. He went upstairs and began packing.

Even as he packed his laptop on top of his clothing, he had a gut feeling he would not really be leaving 221B. He knew he would _never_ leave. And as he wrenched open his door he heard Lestrade as well as two other officers enter the flat.

"Where is he?" Lestrade's voice carried up the staircase.

John put down the suitcase and sat on his bed.

Lestrade appeared in the doorway and knocked on the open door.

"John."

"Greg."

"You can't leave, it's either this or staying at the station. I'm sorry, John, but Sherlock's right."

John nodded, his resolve folding in half and bending over backwards. "I know."

Lestrade seemed satisfied and disappeared downstairs.

"Lestrade," John heard Sherlock speak. "I have never before given you a task comparable in importance to this one, do you understand me?" His voice was threatening. "You cannot let John leave. Keep him safe."

The door opened and Sherlock said one more thing, "And don't tell him." The door closed.

Sherlock was effectively keeping John prisoner.

John wanted to feel rage, but he felt nothing. That was the most frightening.

John lay back down on his bed. Despite hunger coming in rolling waves, he did not move. He drifted off a few times but found no peace until he heard Sherlock return, well past sundown. Even with Sherlock home, the police escorts in the living room did not leave, by command of Sherlock.

Knowing Sherlock was back home safe, he rolled onto his side and drifted into sleep.

_"Sherlock! No, Sherlock!"_

_John held Sherlock's limp body in his arms, blood pouring from the gun shot wounds and from his nose and mouth. John's tears came freely and abundantly. He stroked his curly hair back and kissed his eyelids._

_"Please, Sherlock. Please come back."_

_John looked up. Istvan still stood there, gun at his side, a maniacal smile on his face. _

John woke up, his face and pillow wet with tears.

He didn't know if he could ever forgive Sherlock, but he knew he could never leave, regardless of police escorts watching the door.

On the balls of his feet, he padded noiselessly down the stairs. Sherlock was sat by the window peering out at the city which hummed quietly with the slow traffic of the early morning hours. It was still dark out. As quiet as he had been, he knew Sherlock was perceptive enough to know he was there. Sherlock did not acknowledge him in any way.

He moved closer to the brooding man, looking over every inch of skin exposed by his rolled up sleeves and turned down collar. There was a new bruise on his neck.

_Look at me, Sherlock. Let me see your face. _John cleared his throat but Sherlock did not move.

"Sherlock."

"I apologize, John. Did I wake you?" Sherlock spoke to the window, still not turning.

John moved closer still, close enough to reach out and touch him, but he didn't. He looked into the kitchen where two sleepy police officers sipped coffee at the table.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

John counted to ten. Sherlock still did not move. Finally he grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and moved around the side of the chair to look the man in the eyes.

John gasped, "What happened to you?" he couldn't contain the panic in his voice. Sherlock's nose was visibly broken, dried blood covering his nostrils and upper lip, his bottom lip was swollen, partially from John striking him earlier, but it was too swollen to be entirely on John. The bruise on his neck was also surrounded by several smaller bruises. A hand print.

"It's nothing, John. I can care for myself. I'm obviously not much of a protector, but self-preservation is something I exceed at."

John snorted. "No, no it's not. Mycroft, Lestrade, and I always have to save you from yourself."

Sherlock finally looked at John. His face was blank but John could see his words had stung. He reached out and stroked the bridge of Sherlock's nose. Sherlock winced but did not break eye contact.

"Let me clean you up," John said, almost a whisper.

"Why do you want to help me?"

John could find no answer for him. Anything he could possibly say would only sound like, "I love you."

xXxXxXx

John wiped Sherlock's face with a warm, wet cloth as easily as he could. Sherlock leaned over the sink and allowed a few stray drops of blood to land by the drain.

"What is it you're keeping from me? You told Greg not to tell me."

"When it's safe for you to know, I will tell you."

John didn't respond so Sherlock continued.

"You're not a pawn, John." He inhaled deeply as John ran the cloth over his split lip. "It just has to be this way."

"And what? I'll thank you later? Shower you with compliments and slaps on the back? Not this time."

John dropped the washcloth in the sink and returned to his room.

Sherlock tapped on the door lightly, opening it very slightly. Light from the hall made a skinny streak across the floor boards. John stared determinedly at it.

"John. Is there any damage from that afternoon? I never asked you."

"From what?"

"From... from the case. Are you injured?"

John did not answer. Sherlock stood by his door for nearly half an hour before leaving.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sighed as he heaved himself into the cab, holding his dislocated right arm close to his torso.

He gave the cabbie his address. The man looked chidingly at him through the mirror.

"Drive," Sherlock said, no patience to deal with a civilian.

As he entered the flat he saw that John, for the first time in ten days, was not holed up in his room upstairs. He was sat in Sherlock's place on the couch, typing away on his laptop. Sherlock took a deep breath and smiled. The sight, although it was coming through his one uninjured eye, was a very welcome one.

"John, I brought milk." He said, raising the grocery bag with his left hand. John turned toward him as he entered the sitting room and smiled. The smile quickly faded. John jumped up, sending his computer into the floor.

"Sherlock! God, what has happened to you this time? Come sit down!"

"I'm fine, John." He walked into the kitchen and sat the milk on the table. The two officers sitting there looked at Sherlock with pity. They knew what he was facing, knew the whole story. They said nothing to him.

After some arguing, Sherlock found himself on his back on the sofa, John hovering above him, Sherlock's injured arm in his hands.

"Ready?" John asked him.

Sherlock stuffed a corner of the Union Jack pillow into his mouth and bit down, then nodded.

CRACK!

John popped Sherlock's arm back into position.

"It's going to be incredibly sore and weak for several days, Sherlock."

"It'll be fine, I have work to do."

"Nothing is more important than your health right now."

Sherlock sat up and rolled his eyes, "Thank you, _doctor._"

"You're welcome," John said without sarcasm. Sherlock moved to stand but John forced him back down beside him. "Sherlock, you can't go back out there."

Sherlock looked at his lap. He was still finding it rather difficult to meet John's gaze these days.

"I have to, I'm almost done."

"Yeah, you keep saying that. Shouldn't things be going more smoothly by now?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "I rushed into it. I was desperate to have it over and done. Now they think I'm an officer of some sort and they organize some sort of beating for me every time to ensure I will not tell anything I learn there."

John's eyes widened and his face fell.

"They're going to kill you. Please, please give up on this case. They'll work it out. Lestrade and Mycroft are smart lads, they can do it without you for once, I promise."

"This case is too important to leave it to them."

"Nothing in the world is worth this."

_You are, _Sherlock thought.

xXx

"Where's John?" Lestrade asked Sherlock the following morning as the officers traded shifts at the front of the flat.

"Still asleep."

"You need to know that he's been begging me to pull you off of this case."

"He just gets cold feet when he sees these little scratches."

"No, Sherlock, I said he is _begging _me. Doctor John Watson does not beg. You need to tell him why you're so involved in this case."

"No, it will get him killed. You know as well as I that he will run headlong into the thick of it, unprotected."

"It looks like you're going to get yourself killed," Lestrade said in a lowered voice, glancing at the officers.

"I deserve it."

"You're doing so much for him. How do you deserve to die?"

Sherlock shook his head and looked around to ensure no eager ears were hovering. "You don't know what I've done to him."

"Whatever you've done, it apparently doesn't matter. You didn't see the look on his face when he was begging me to pull you off the case. He loves you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up the staircase towards John's room where he sincerely hoped John was finding peaceful sleep for once. He shook his head.

"I can't tell him yet."

He stared after the silver haired man as he found his way out of the flat.

x

When John finally found his way downstairs, stretching and yawning, Sherlock followed him into the kitchen.

"It's nearly noon. Did you sleep well?"

John grinned at him. It made Sherlock's heart stutter, he swallowed hard and held his breath. Sherlock knew what this feeling was. He knew why John caused such physiological effects, he just did not want to admit it.

"Yeah," he chuckled and pulled down a cup to make tea. "Yeah, I slept pretty well, thanks."

"I need to know why you kissed me, " Sherlock said so quickly it all ran together.

John slowly turned around to face him fully. He blinked slowly.

"It's a little early for this conversation."

"I'm about to leave and I need to know why you did it."

John turned away from him again and pulled a tea bag from the canister.

"I want you to feel what it's like to be used. Not that you feel much at all anyway."

"You're lying." Really, he just _hoped_ John was lying. Oh, he hoped like Hell.

Sherlock pulled his coat tight around himself and left.


	8. Chapter 8

In the taxi, Sherlock replayed his last moment with John.

_His shoulders had been slightly tensed. He did not make eye contact. He did not talk at length as was his usual habit._

_He was lying. He was lying._

Sherlock could not console himself.

The commute to The Nest (as he liked to refer to it) was nearly 45 minutes. He always seemed to find himself further and further away from John. Never closer.

Entering The Nest was never the same twice. Sometimes it was damn near empty, other times it was filled with buyers, sellers, and users.

On this day, it was busy. Two men in thick, brown coats stood just outside the door, one smoking a cigarette, the other engrossed in his mobile phone's screen. The days that Istvan had an audience were the worst days for Sherlock. He nodded in greeting to the men outside the door and entered.

Istvan stood just inside the foyer. Sherlock handed him the stack of money for the latest batch of drugs. He was wearing brown leather shoes like the ones John wore. Istvan's smile confirmed what Sherlock had already known: nothing good could come of today. Istvan clapped his hand across Sherlock's neck, in the same manner that had left a bruise some days before. He squeezed tight, threatening, and leaned in. His breath smelled like coffee and cigarettes. Sherlock stood more rigidly and swallowed hard.

"I have something special planned for you today, Pearce." He said into Sherlock's ear in a rough mutter.

Two men, one he noticed as Istvan's assistant, came behind him, each grabbing one shoulder and pinning him to the spot. The putrid smell of vomit and heroin was unmistakable. The unknown man behind him had not quite slept off the previous night's stupor. Given the right opportunity, he could overpower him. Istvan grabbed the waist of Sherlock's trousers forcefully and pulled them open quickly and began to pull them down his legs. As Istvan lowered his head, Sherlock kneed him in the face. In panic the men behind him loosened their grip. Sherlock had a one second opportunity. He pulled his arms free, throwing his elbows against both men, hitting what he could. Istvan was still leaning over, holding his mouth and nose. Sherlock kicked him on the side of the head. He fell over, knocked out. The Assistant was coming toward him. Sherlock kicked him in the groin then punched him twice, savoring the feeling of his skin splitting along his knuckles.

A sudden, sharp, agonizing pain flooded Sherlock's left ribs. He ran his eyes over the scene behind him to ensure no one could follow him. He re-buttoned his trousers and fled the flat.

Sherlock ran half of a block before turning his attention to the knife that now protruded from his side. He stopped, gasping for air. Once his breath was nearly steadied, he pulled the knife from his rib cage. He let the weapon fall to the pavement and waved down a cab.

He slumped into the cab and pulled his legs in slowly.

"You're bleeding, mate!"

"221B Baker Street, London!" Sherlock demanded with as much force as he could muster.

Sherlock banged his head against the car window out of frustration. _Goddammit! Goddammit! _It was a wasted day and the next day would be spent fixing his mistakes, so it came to two wasted days. Sherlock didn't know what more he could do if this case did not end soon. If he could not fix this, John would surely leave once he learned what had been at stake all along.

Grey buildings blurred by. He made himself focus on each one, knowing he must stay awake until he could get to John.

As he approached home, he messaged John, "Meet me outside."

The cab pulled up and John flew down the steps towards the vehicle. Sherlock dropped money in the seat of the cab and pushed the door open. He collapse onto the curb, his body melding to the pavement. Everything around him came in and out of focus but John was there, cradling his head, and calling Lestrade before he could register anything else.

He looked up at John and grinned. Despite the sun high above them stinging Sherlock's eyes, he stared into John's face. John's eyes were filled with worry, but it was nothing new. Sherlock raised his hand and stroked John's soft stubble before nestling his face in closer to John's soft t-shirt.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," John pleaded, eyes widening as he pressed his hands to the wound and saw how much blood had collected there.

Sherlock lost consciousness.

xXxxxXx

John paced the sitting room of 221B, focusing on the spray-painted face. As he turned on his left foot, he caught a glimpse of the officer on duty leaning against the wall by the fireplace, staring at him. John rubbed the tears from his cheeks and took a deep breath. The front door opened and he stopped dead in his tracks. Lestrade.

"How is he?" John rushed toward him.

"Well, he's Sherlock."

John chuckled, then began to laugh heartily. He laughed until he was struggling for air. The blonde officer and Lestrade exchanged a glance. John paused and dug his thumbs into his eyes, urging the exhaustion to subside. He then began to sob openly. John ran his fingers through his hair and began to pull at it, screaming and crying all at once. Lestrade reached out and grabbed John's shoulders.

"John! John, breath! Sherlock is fine."

"No, he isn't! He's going to die, Greg." John continued to cry. He left Lestrade's grip and flopped onto the couch. Lestrade nodded to the officer, telling him they needed privacy. The man nodded and left the flat. Lestrade sat beside John.

"He will be fine. You know Sherlock, he can't die before a case is solved."

John ignored Lestrade's feeble attempt at humor. "I'm going mad."

"I bet you _are_ feeling a bit insane, only having these walls and my face to look at over the past two weeks. We could have a walk, if you'd like."

"Not unless we're walking to the hospital."

"Not bloody likely. Sherlock would have my head if he knew I let you out of here."

John chewed on the inside of his cheek and worried the hem of his shirt with his rough fingers.

"What's going on with the two of you anyhow?" Lestrade questioned, true concern tinting his voice.

"I love him, Greg. And I- I," he stuttered, swallowing back mucus and saliva. "I know I shouldn't." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, appreciating that he was sat in Sherlock's favorite place. It smelled of him, like soap, and musk, and stolen tobacco. "He's keeping me prisoner, "John continued. "And he... just, everything he's put me through. And, well, he's a bloke. I suppose that's a new one for me."

"And? Everyone knows you two love one another. That's nothing new at all. What could he have possibly done to you to make you act like this, John? You haven't been yourself."

"I could never tell you." John opened his eyes at the sound of the other officer reentering. "I wouldn't want you to think badly of him."

"Seems to me," Lestrade said, standing. "that you've already forgiven him, or you wouldn't be concerned with something as trivial as his reputation. Have you thought maybe you're just upset with yourself?"

The front door opened. The officer stood at attention, alarmed. A head of curly brown hair emerged.

"Sherlock," John and Lestrade said in unison.

"Upstairs, John." As an afterthought he added a terse, "Please."

John looked at Lestrade who nodded to him. Sherlock approached the stairs. John came behind him and gripped Sherlock's upper arm to steady him.

"If I'd been on call, I'd never have let you leave in this condition, so I'm guessing you forced them to discharge you."

"Of course I did. I live with a doctor, I don't need the ones they offered."

They entered John's room. Sherlock sat on the bed and John sat opposite him in his desk chair.

"I need you to know, John, that-"

"-can't this wait? You've been stabbed." John suddenly felt in a panic.

"No. It can't wait. I know what happened that day. I know the events perfectly and for that I hesitate to claim this but: I was as much a victim as you. Do you think I enjoyed doing those things to you? Do you think I replay it in my head at night and get off on it? I don't. It makes me cringe. It makes me hurt. You're all I have in the world. I don't want to damage or lose that. I apologize to you that I have not treated you the way I should have at times. I am not accustomed to personal relationships but I _am_ willing to rearrange my life and habits... for you."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes, obviously. I just said that."

John rolled his eyes. "Let me check your bandaging." John needed time to think about how he really wanted this conversation to go. He pulled a small white box out of his bedside table. He sanitized his hands, and laid out more gauze and surgical tape.

"Stand up," John instructed professionally. He pulled Sherlock's coat down his arms and let it fall to the bed. Sherlock stared into John's eyes with such an intensity it made him want to shrink away. After a long moment of staring back, he realized his hands were still on Sherlock's arms and that his face was much too close. He pulled on gloves from his safety kit and lowered himself to his knees then pulled up the side of Sherlock's button-up shirt. He held his breath and slowly peeled the tape and gauze away from the wound. He studied the angry red slash, pulled together with 8 black stitches. The blood had only just begun to clot properly. He made a mental note to threaten the idiot who'd allowed Sherlock to discharge without calling John first.

Without thinking, John gave himself over to his urges. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss just above the wound. Sherlock tensed. John sighed and rested his forehead against Sherlock's angled hip and wrapped his arms around the other man's waist.

"John," Sherlock said gently. John took the fresh gauze and folded it into a neat square and taped it over the gash. "John," Sherlock said again, nearly a whisper. John stood and straightened Sherlock's blood-stained shirt.

"Do you love me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I just told you." It was so matter-of-fact, as if confirming dinner reservations.

In the dark of the room, only light from streetlamps seeping in, John searched Sherlock's eyes. In that moment he realized that Lestrade was correct. John was mad at himself. He'd went from an independent soldier to so completely dependent upon another man that he was making mistakes he knew better than to make- such as walking into an environment where he felt uncomfortable, simply because the other man batted his eyelashes (figuratively, of course.) He was mad because another man had the power to so completely debilitate him, emotionally. He was mad because he was in love with a man that, he previously believed, could never love him back.

"No, Sherlock," John said, grinning sheepishly. "_Do you love me?_" John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, feeling the wind-chapped skin beneath his thick stubble. Sherlock looked down, seeming almost embarrassed. John leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed him gently, the way he should have the first time. He paused, letting his lips linger over Sherlock's. Finally Sherlock pressed forward and kissed him back. A groan of the floorboards told them someone was making their way up the staircase. They pulled apart slowly.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said earnestly.

John saw, in those blue eyes, beneath the thick, furrowed brow, that there was more depth to Sherlock than he'd imagined. A man who cared about more than a case.

A knock.

"Sherlock," Lestrade addressed him through the door.

"No," John said, his voice lowered. "You can't go back."

"I just need to go back one more time." Sherlock stood and left the room, grinning at John- a sweet, simple grin that contained endless secrets and promises- before snapping the door closed again.

John wadded up the used gauze and his gloves and threw them into the floor. He lied back and pulled Sherlock's forgotten coat over his torso and stared into the dark, wondering if he'd ever not be alone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, fav'd, and followed! I really appreciate your feedback and support!**

**And, again, thank you to my truly incredible beta, saints-and-madmen over at Tumblr. :)**

**MWMWMWMWMWMWMW**

Almost to the bottom step, leaving John's room, Lestrade touched Sherlock's shoulder to slow him.

"I heard you lie to him."

Sherlock turned away from him and walked into the sitting room.

"I didn't."

"Yes, you did." Lestrade touched his shoulder again. Sherlock faced him. Lestrade's eyes were piercing, clearly upset with how he perceived Sherlock's treatment of John. "You told him you only had to go back once more."

Sherlock retied his scarf tight around his neck to make up for the loss of his coat.

"Sherlock. No, what aren't you telling me?" He followed Sherlock's eyes, forcing the taller man to look at him.

"I know where she is. Reserve us a room in Luton."

Lestrade nodded to the officer in the corner, "You heard him."

xXx

Sherlock rubbed his hands together outside of 221B. The wind tousled his curls and pushed them into his eyes.

"You left your coat in John's room," Lestrade said as he joined him on the curb.

"I'm aware."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a cheeky smile. Sherlock sighed and turned towards the cab pulling to a stop before them. He looked once more at the brass 221B on the black door, knowing well it could be the last time he would ever lay eyes on it.

_Home. _

He followed Lestrade into the cab.

xXx

In the small hotel room, police officers set up video cameras, sound devices, weapons...

Sherlock ran his thumb over his phone, unsure how he could possibly condense his complex feelings into a simple text message.

"Just text him," Donovan sneered at him.

"Shut your mouth, you know nothing."

"Hey, there," Lestrade stood from the small bed behind them. "Come down to the lobby with me, Sherlock. I need a fizzy drink."

"Then go get one."

"_I need a fizzy drink._"

Sherlock pocketed his phone and followed the Detective Inspector out of the room. They walked a short distance from the door and stood near the elevator.

"You need to tell him, Sherlock."

"The case is almost over, he will know soon enough."

"You know damn well that's not what I mean." Lestrade looked down the hall in both directions. "He needs to know he's important to you."

Sherlock hesitated. "He knows."

"Does he?" Lestrade pulled his phone from his coat and handed it to him.

_I know Sherlock is with you. Please tell him it wasn't his fault.- JW_

The words replayed in his head several times.

_Wasn't his fault... wasn't his fault._

Sherlock's lips fell apart, wanting to scream, wanting to say something... anything. He couldn't. He turned around and frantically began pressing the elevator call button.

"Sherlock, you can't leave. You have to save her first. Just... just call him. An officer is with him. I've already told him to keep an eye out."

Sherlock quickly dialed John's number. "Make it count," Lestrade told him. Sherlock nodded curtly and stepped away for privacy.

The phone rang several times. The elevator dinged behind him. His heart began to pound at approximately 120 beats per minute. The palms of his hands began to sweat.

Voicemail.

He ran his hands through his thick hair and attempted to even his breathing.

"Damn it! Damn it!" He looked to Lestrade, who nodded and dialed a number of his own.

He paced the hallway, holding his phone with the same fervor with which he would later hold John if he ever saw him again.

His phone began to ring. He answered it without looking at the name on the screen.

"Yes," he greeted tersely.

John sighed, his breath wavering against the phone on the other end. "Officer Thompson said I needed to call you immediately."

He sounded annoyed.

_Thank you, thank you. _Sherlock thought, unsure who he was thanking.

"John, I promise I will be back. This is for you. Do you understand me?"

"No, not at all."

"I am doing this for you!" Sherlock began to shout, so desperate for John to understand him. _Catch up, John! Please catch up!_

"Erm, okay. Okay, Sherlock."

"I am doing this for you," he repeated. "I am almost done with this and I will be home."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Sherlock rubbed his face. "What I am trying to say is: please, do not harm yourself, John. Please promise me you would never... that you would never do that to me. I couldn't lose you. No, not now."

"Excuse me?"

"I saw what you sent Lestrade!" Sherlock was shouting again.

Silence.

Sherlock held his own breath, listening for John's.

Finally he spoke, "I am not going to harm myself."

"Swear to me!"

"I swear. I was never going to harm myself. I'm packing."

"Why? What are you packing?"

"My things, Sherlock. I'm leaving."

"No, you can't leave. There is an officer there to protect you."

"Sherlock, you said you loved me and then you took off to a fucking hotel without another word! Who fucking does that, hm?!"

Sherlock's first instinct was to defend himself, but he remembered Lestrade's instruction.

"Yes, I did say that. I meant it," His words were clipped and precise, as if reading from a script. "I apologize for not telling you my plans. As I told you, I am unaccustomed to relationships of any kind. I will attempt to be more considerate in the future. Please allow me to keep you safe in the only way I know how."

"I can't guarantee you anything."

"I don't understand why you're leaving. You said it wasn't my fault."

"I can't be like you. I can't contain my feelings or stop them dead and, because of that, you will always disappoint me."

The line went dead.

Sherlock turned back to the elevator and pushed the call button again.'

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock balled his fists until he felt his fingernails cut the skin of his palms.

"To kill Istvan."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock stood still and stared straight forward as police officers surrounded him, preparing him.

Lestrade had had to drag him back into the hotel room and confiscate his handgun. Once he'd calmed a bit, he was appreciative that Lestrade had forced him to continue with the plan. It would be cleaner this way. Mycroft would get the information he needed and Sherlock would get what he needed.

An officer placed a small microphone in his billfold then replaced it in Sherlock's pocket. They tested the sound; worked perfectly. A knife was strapped to each of his ankles, a gun placed in the waist of his trousers.

The room was abuzz with information and endless repetition of the plan to ensure everything was crystal clear. Thankfully, this was not Anderson's department. Well, it would have been if Sherlock hadn't put his foot down firmly at the beginning of the investigation.

Lestrade pat his back. It was time to go.

xXx

The street was visually empty but Sherlock could hear the scurries of the typical filth doing their own crimes in the alleyways and in parked vehicles. At this time of night, one could not even hail a cab. Sherlock's cabbie was an out-of-uniform officer who had been instructed to wait.

Sherlock approached The Nest and entered without knocking, as per usual.

Istvan stood with four other men in the main room. They passed around a glass pipe between them.

"Pearce," Istvan's eyes narrowed.

"I have a desperate buyer. Offered me an extra 75 pounds if I'd deliver to him tonight," Sherlock told him.

Istvan winked and stepped into the next room, where the drugs were weighed and bagged.

The remaining men continued their conversation. Sherlock listened for keywords, knowing the sort of activities that caught the interest of these men at an hour like this.

"Istvan told me if I could increase sales up north," he smoked from the pipe. "that he would let me have the new toy." He grinned, bragging, as he passed the pipe to short man on his right.

"Eh, who would want her anyway? She's been used up. I saw Conner shoot a wad all across her face at least three times. I couldn't get it up around her after that."

"Yeah, but she'll be all mine if these deals up north go through. No one else can use her."

"Her arse is gently used," the third man said in a thick Scottish accent and chuckled.

A fire burned slowly from the pit of Sherlock's stomach and rose through his chest and into his face. He took a deep breath and almost reached for the gun in his waistband but knew he could not be careless with this case. He nearly had all the information he would need.

"Where's this toy now?" Sherlock asked. "I haven't had a go at her yet."

"Oh, that filthy whore?" the short man asked. "We don't even pass her around anymore. CC tied her up at Conner's a few days ago."

"Conner, the assistant?"

The Scottish man nodded as he took a drag from the pipe.

"Who is CC?" Sherlock asked gently, as not to seem too prying.

"That crack bitch, the lesbian." The shorter man answered.

Istvan emerged from the other room with a small, black pouch. He approached Sherlock and handed it to him as if handing him a mug of tea. Sherlock took it, then shook Istvan's hand. As he lowered his hand, his fingertips brushed against the outside of Istvan's jacket. Sherlock pulled the exposed corner of Istvan's mobile phone and discretely tucked it behind the black bag and placed both in the left pocket of his trousers.

"Pearce, I'd better see you bright and early." He gave a lascivious wink.

"Of course."

As Sherlock left the flat and approached the cab, he nodded to the officers parked in the car on the corner.

He called Lestrade from the cab.

"I have the mobile." Sherlock read him the phone number listed under "Conner." From the station, they traced the mobile linked to the number, giving them it's current position. It was on a street four kilometres away.

Sherlock ended the call and immediately noticed he had another message on his phone.

_John is in a panic. He called her. End this.- MH_

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the seat, imagining the officers that would be, at this very moment, arresting Istvan and his group of miscreants. Sherlock thought of the things he would like to do to Istvan himself, most scenarios ending in significant amounts of blood.

xXxX

The GPS on the mobile phone led them to a house on the dodgy end of a working-class street. Sherlock studied the home carefully as the cab pulled to a stop. One light on, second story, first room on the right. Curtains drawn, high level of activity indicated in silhouettes. Drugs would not require such movement. That's where she was. He was beating her. Sherlock needed to get to her.

Knowing the operation of this group, he knew the members of import were not often alone. The officer driving the cab handed him a silencer which he then screwed onto the tip of his handgun.

Before exiting the vehicle, Sherlock's fingers flew across his phone's keypad. _Mycroft, have John brought to Scotland Yard. I will arrive shortly. -SH_

xXx

Sherlock slowly opened the door and stepped silently within, leaving the door cracked open. A TV flickered in the sitting room. A man was sat silently, back to Sherlock. Sherlock stepped into the flickering shadow of the man.

_Click._

The man jumped in surprise, but stilled when he felt Sherlock's gun against the back of his head.

"Where is she?"

"Upstairs! I swear! Please don't shoot-"

"- with Conner?"

"Yes! Yes! Pearce, is that you?"

"I want you to step outside onto the steps."

The man nodded, hands raised, and left without a single glance towards Sherlock. Sherlock heard the shuffle of police silently snapping cuffs around his wrists and pulling him into the darkness.

The flat was pungent with the smell of drugs, stale alcohol, and tobacco.

He made his way to the staircase and took each step slowly as to avoid the groaning of the floorboards.

Two men were in an adjacent room, speaking loudly about a computer program that, "Moriarty, that fucking genius" had made. That would be what Mycroft wanted.

Sherlock stared towards the door of the room where Conner would be. Closer to the room, Sherlock could hear the muffled cries. She was undoubtedly gagged- a mouth full of fabric, as well as a strip of fabric tied between her teeth and wrapped around the back of her head. He knew he could not yet enter there, he would be outnumbered when the other two men heard the struggle.

Hearing the muffled screams of agony from the other room made Sherlock's blood run hot through his veins. He could not show mercy to these men, as he had to the one downstairs. He pushed the door open and held his gun out before him. Two men were sat at a small table, playing a card game. They both looked up immediately. The blonde on the left began to stand up, a brave grin twisting his lips. He reached for his gun from the edge of the table. Sherlock shot him between the eyes. A small bit of blood ran down the bridge of his nose. He shrank to his knees and fell over onto the table, scattering the cards. The bald man on the right looked on in horror, gripping a knife, but too stunned to use it. Sherlock shot him in the neck and left him to gurgle against the blood pouring from his throat.

Sherlock left the room and pressed his back against the wall, readying himself for what he would soon be faced with. To steady his blood-pressure, Sherlock conjured the most calming image he could bring to mind. What had once consistently been an image of his violin, awaiting him in the cold windowsill, was now replaced by John's grey eyes; Fluttering closed with exhaustion and opening once more, happiness lighting them because Sherlock was home and now he could sleep easier, knowing he was safe. _John._

Sherlock heard a slow, almost-inaudible, slide of trainers approaching. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he positioned himself for an assault. A man with a lion tattoed across the front of his neck reached the top of the stairs. Expressionless, the man approached Sherlock in one large stride. Sherlock aimed his gun but the man grabbed Sherlock's arm and twisted it, forcing Sherlock's grip to falter. The gun hit the ground. The house was suddenly too quiet. There was a hesitation in Conner's room but soon the abuse began again. The man forced Sherlock into the floor and kicked him in the stomach. Sherlock curled into the foetal position as if in excruciating pain, bring his ankles within reach to utilize the knife tied there. He straddled Sherlock and placed the gun against his temple. Sherlock stilled, thinking. The man looked towards Conner's room and opened his mouth to warn him but Sherlock grasped the knife and brought it upward, cutting the man's groin. The large man hit the ground and Sherlock cut his neck and stabbed his chest repeatedly, long after the man was dead. Sherlock regained his gun and left the knife in the man's sternum.

Sherlock took a deep breath and rushed the door, kicking it in.

"On the ground!" Sherlock shouted.

Istvan's assistant, Conner, was stood above her- his hand raised, ready to strike her with a leather belt. A knife was in his opposite hand. Conner's eyes widened in shock, but once his simple brain caught up with the scene around him, he slowly bent his knees and lied down onto his stomach.

"I fucking knew you were a goddamned traitor, Pearce. I told Istvan! I told him."

"Who is CC? Why did he bring her here?"

The man smirked at Sherlock, so he kicked him roughly in the ribs. _Oopf! _The man spluttered. Conner slowly pulled his hand from the floor and then jabbed a finger towards his hostage in the corner of the room, beneath the window. "Her fucking girlfriend," he growled.

"CC. Clara. Clara did this? She's the-?"

Sherlock handcuffed Conner, tightening the metal around his wrists until he was sure it would cut his skin. He grabbed the man roughly by his hair, pulling his head closer to Sherlock's lips.

"The only reason I will not be killing you tonight is because I'd rather see you rot." Sherlock stood and dug the heel of his shoe into Conner's back, between his shoulder blades.

The girl in the corner was hogtied, her hands and ankles bound by zip-ties, a small towel tied through her teeth and around her head. She was not blindfolded, but her eyes were so bruised and swollen that Sherlock could only guess at her eye color. Blood matted her sandy-colored hair. The same color as John's. He began to imagine John there- raped, beaten, starving- betrayed by someone he loved.

Sherlock felt nauseated.

He dropped to his knees and all but crawled to her, before calling Lestrade. As soon as he closed his mobile, he heard officers pouring in downstairs. Sherlock pulled Harry into his arms and untied her gag. He fought the urge to stoke her hair.

"Harry, I'm Sherlock. Help will be here in just a moment. I am so sorry." He began to rock her the way one would rock a small child. "I'm sorry, Harry. I am so sorry." Sherlock lost count of how many times he repeated himself. He was so sorry. Sorry it took him so long, sorry it happened, sorry that he could still only think about John. "I'm so sorry."

Harry didn't move, she barely blinked. Tears streamed down her filthy, broken face but she did not move. Pain and shock prevented her from speaking.

Sherlock supposed he was in shock too.

She smelled of cigarettes, drugs, blood, cum, urine.

The officers entered with two medical workers who removed her from Sherlock's stiff arms and placed her on the stretcher.

"John is waiting for you, Harriet," he told her gently as they pulled her from the room. Her eyes stayed on Sherlock until she was out of sight.

Sherlock stood to follow but two officers drug Conner to his feet, blocking the path. Sherlock cocked his fist back without thinking and let it fly into Conner's mouth, blood instantly pouring from his lips.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed.

_John is waiting for you. - MH_


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stared out of the cab window, unblinking. What would he say to John? What _could_ he say? He'd saved his sister, Harry, but it had taken him entirely too long and he'd lied to John, he'd hurt him.

Lestrade wrenched the car door open. Exhaustion clung to his face in the young wrinkles and in the bags beneath his eyes.

"Come on, then."

Sherlock hesitantly followed him inside.

"What will you say to him?" Lestrade asked as he opened the door.

"It's not important. John will react how he wishes, despite what I say."

"I suppose you're right."

Sherlock pulled open the door to the meeting room and, before he'd fully entered, a blur came across his vision. He was encompassed by Doctor John Watson.

And he was crying.

Sherlock slowly brought his arms up to return the embrace. John's tear-soaked cheek nestled against Sherlock's.

"You're a right bastard," John choked out, pulling his head back to look Sherlock in the eyes. For once in his life, Sherlock gave himself over to want and leaned down to kiss John. Sherlock would have predicted that kissing John would make him feel heavier with the possible implications of the kiss but he didn't. He felt lighter, relieved. Sherlock would later remember this moment as The Moment that Changed Everything.

Cheers could be heard, coming like the falling of dominoes, from the officers around them. Given the approximate location and height, the first cheers came from Sally Donovan.

Sherlock held John tighter and let his eyes close. John's lips parted a bit more and Sherlock sighed into his mouth. John pressed his tongue between Sherlock's lips.

xXxXx

Despite the horrible timing of having an audience of colleagues, John could feel nothing but exaltation at Sherlock's affection. With all of his belongings at 221B packed into suitcases, it was what he needed to finally decide whether to leave or not.

Sherlock's lips were dry and split and his mouth tasted bitter but John loved him. He tangled his fingers into the unruly curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulled him impossibly closer before breaking the kiss.

They pulled apart, but did not break eye contact. The sun was just beginning to make it's appearance over London and John wanted nothing but to let Sherlock take him home. John sighed heavily and forced himself back into reality.

"Where is Harry?"

Sherlock swallowed. "In hospital," he looked John in the eye, his steel eyes boring into him as if desperately needing John to believe him, "She will be fine. She looks much worse than she is."

"I could have prevented this." John stepped away from Sherlock at last. He rubbed his face and looked around at the eight officers still watching them. Sherlock accepted the cue and led John into Lestrade's office, where this had all begun.

Sherlock snapped the door closed and turned back to him. "You couldn't have prevented it. I was not even aware your sister was a part of this until after you and I went undercover."

"I should have called her sooner. What brother doesn't keep tabs on his sister?" John felt himself begin to panic all over again.

_John sat up in his bed, hoping sleep would come. Just as he began to slide down into the sheets, his mobile rang. _

_"Dr. Watson," Mycroft addressed him. "Be dressed. I will be there in ten minutes." _

_"Is this about my sister? I told you- I'm worried and yes, I panicked, but she's probably just passed out drunk. I can go by there in the-"  
_

_"-I will be there in ten minutes, Dr. Watson."_

_John did hate to give into Mycroft, but at 2 am, it would have to be much more than urgent. John pulled on jeans and trainers and waited by the door. The officer had been instructed to stay behind and allow John to leave with the oldest Holmes. Mycroft's car pulled in front of the flat and John rushed out to join him in the backseat._

_There, John was told about his sister. How Clara had developed a horrible addiction and fell in with this particular drug group. She grew more and more bitter as Harry denied her advances and pleas to take her back. In a drug stupor, she'd wished horrible things on Harry, things that her new group of friends thought might be "fun." John threw the door open at the stoplight and wretched onto the wet pavement. It's why she hadn't answered several hours before. He was calling to ask if he could stay with her until things with Sherlock were fixed. He was calling because he needed something. Did he ever call for anything else? Did he ever ring her just because? Or go visit her to see how she was? No, he was too wrapped up in Sherlock._

Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder confidently and soothingly. John studied his face, expectantly. Sherlock always had something to say. He could tell the words were right there on the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock said nothing, just stared back at him. Sherlock licked his lips and stepped away to look out at the city. He was stood with his strong hands on the windowsill and his head down, his hair hanging down into his face. He appeared to be deep in thought.

"I need to go be with Harry, Sherlock. I don't want to leave you here, but I can't let her be all alone. Not after all she's been through."

"I suppose you can relate to her," Sherlock muttered, almost a whisper.

"No!" John stepped forward defensively and grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him. "I'm not a victim, Sherlock. I wallowed in that for quite a while, I did. But, it's not because of what happened." John looked away, feeling his cheeks tint with embarrassment. "It's not what happened. It's _how_ it happened. Yes, you lied to me a bit, and you ignored me when I needed you to listen but that is no different than any other case we've worked. That's just you." John sighed. His hands fell from his hips, giving up. "It's that I've... you know... thought about that- with you. And it just ruined the illusion. I tried to make myself think that I could make you feel something, anything, for me other than friendship and maybe one day we could go down that road. And... and, when I pictured it... well, it wasn't in a dingy flat with a fat man wanking to it, I can tell you that."

Sherlock chuckled. "I imagined it differently as well. If you will permit it, we will have a new 'first time.'"

"So, you meant it. You meant what you said last night." _that you love me._

Sherlock looked at John quizzically. "John, I mean everything I say."

John's heart began to race, but guilt gnawed at his gut. "I need to go be with Harry now."

"May I join you? Mycroft is with her and the case is actually not quite done yet."

The two men left the office and made their way toward the elevator. As they turned the corner they saw Istvan, Conner, and two other familiar men handcuffed and sat on a bench. Lestrade stood in front of them silently, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What do you suppose they'll get?" John asked, attempting to mask his emotion.

Lestrade shrugged. "Not my division. I'd just as soon have them killed by firing squad or hanging."

As if a rubber band pulled too tight had released, Sherlock was in front of them. He punched Istvan in the nose and spat on him. He then turned to Conner, wailing on him as if fighting for his life.

Lestrade stepped forward, "Okay, that's enough now. I do have superiors to answer to, you know."

Sherlock slowly backed away from them. Istvan bent his head to wipe the blood onto his shoulder. Conner was slumped in his seat, unconscious.

xXx

In the police car, Sherlock placed his hand on John's in a gesture that was more intimate than any kiss could be. John looked over at the tall man, surprised. Sherlock grinned at him and turned away. John rested his forehead against the cab window and allowed his breath to fog the cold glass. Harry would be okay, Sherlock would be okay, and John... well, he would be okay too.

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**Author's Note: This is not the end!** At least two more chapters are still to come! If you are liking this story then let me know by reviewing, following, and fav'ing, please! Thank you to everyone who has supported me through comments, follows, and faves already- you guys are so fantastic and I appreciate it!


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